


Falling (And Learning to Stand Again.)

by LetTheWookieWin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4202910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetTheWookieWin/pseuds/LetTheWookieWin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'You ache.  You ache all over and you can't quite tell if the pain is physical or rooted in the twisting, writhing agony that has settled in your chest.  You were always told grief makes you numb.  You don't feel numb.  You feel everything.'</p><p>A snippet from Bryce Cousland's little spitfire during her time at Ostagar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling (And Learning to Stand Again.)

You ache. You ache all over and you can't quite tell if the pain is physical or rooted in the twisting, writhing agony that has settled in your chest. You were always told grief makes you numb. You don't feel numb. You feel _everything_. You feel the sting of the arrow wound on your arm, a souvenir from one of Howe's men. You feel the swelling blisters from your ill-fitting boots. You feel the itching, squirming, _wriggling_ sensation just under the surface of your skin, the sense that something is coming, something is _calling_. You hear the whispers, the beckoning. A strange language that you don't quite understand but entrances you, entices you, _lures_ you. The only thing keeping you sane is the foul metallic taste in your mouth that tastes so wrong and makes you retch and dry heave until you collapse in the trampled grass, still stained with Ser Jory's blood, in tearful exhaustion.

You want your father.

But your father is not here. And neither is your mother, or your brother, or sister-in-law, or your sweet little nephew who was so eager to fight and so desperate to learn. Even Ser Gilmore, who you've known since you were a tiny girl, covered in mud and dust and brandishing a battered wooden sword, is gone. Highever has fallen. And you have fallen too.

_Justice._

Justice, your father had said. Find justice. King Cailan had spoken of justice too. You don't think either of them really know what the word means. You're not even sure it exists. There are just men too greedy and children cut down too young. There are just monsters clawing up through the mud and foolish young kings with dreams of glory. There is no justice in war and there is no justice in death. There is just that. Death.

So you will die for this cause. This hopeless, impossible cause. You will die fighting the nightmares of children in these decrepit old ruins on the whim of some hero king. You will die in this pointless battle. This foolish, ill-planned charge that has been tempered by the folly of youth and the prejudice of age. You will die and you will not care. Because there is nothing else. Highever has fallen. The Couslands have fallen. You have fallen.

In War, Victory  
In Peace, Vigilance  
In Death, _Sacrifice_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But then you wake. And the slaughter is over. The king is dead. The battle is lost. Highever has fallen. The Couslands have fallen. The king has fallen. And maybe, just maybe, you have fallen too. But it is time to stagger to your feet and ignore the aching in your chest. Because your family may be gone, but you are still a _Cousland_. _You are still a Grey Warden._ And you will not allow Ferelden to fall.


End file.
